


You Know the Lord of Light Is Laughing

by orphan_account



Series: Fleetwood!verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angel Dean Winchester, Angel Sam Winchester, Angel Vessel Consent Issues (Supernatural), Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 19:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18482554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which the last Seal is about to be broken, and Dean must finally choose between himself and his mission.





	You Know the Lord of Light Is Laughing

A low wind picks up and sweeps over the street corner they’re waiting at, sending broken bits of leaves and dust skittering across the tarmac.

“I hate this,” Dean mutters to himself, tucking his fingers under the bend of his crossed arms. It’s not like the evening’s slight chill can even affect them, but it still seems like the thing to do at the moment. And he’s feeling sullen enough to give into his vessel’s instincts.

Sam tosses him a measured glance from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t said anything not directly relating to their mission for the last week and a half. All, _“Raphael wants us on standby,”_ and, _“There’s a Seal we need to check on in Alaska.”_ Blips of instruction passed along Angel Radio because Dean’s been refusing to tune in, mainly just out of spite. Sam hasn’t let him touch him since Illinois. Since their mandatory tune-up in Heaven. Naomi’s fucked-up method of ‘aversion therapy’.

No, wait. _Bartholomew_ had been his guy, Sam had said.

Dean’s never even met him.

He cuts his gaze over his little brother’s pristine suit, blood-red tie neat like it’s been pressed and shoes shined to perfection. The good little soldier for the first time in his entire life. Docile and obedient. Like he’s an entirely different angel. Dean shudders to think what that sadistic son of a bitch could have possibly done to Sam to turn him into this…thing. This dutiful, compliant shell of the past two weeks. Like he’s never been anything but this. An empty, junkless lackey.

…But he’s not though. Despite the sin of it—or maybe _because_ of it—Dean still knows what Sam’s body looks like under the starched, clean lines of gray fabric. He knows the hard, hot weight of his cock, straining red and wet until he takes it inside, wherever it’ll fit. The way his ribs jump under his panting breaths, even though he doesn’t need the oxygen. The soft rasp of his voice as he begs for Dean to touch him. Everywhere. Anywhere.

Heaven can’t take those memories away from him. Not this time.

He’d die first.

“What did he say to you, man?” Dean breathes into the quiet night. It’s more rhetorical than anything else. He’s not really expecting an answer. They still have a few minutes until their rendezvous is scheduled to arrive, and given Sam’s recent obsession with professionalism, this meeting will be right on time. Like fucking clockwork.

Sam shifts uncomfortably under the faux-casual question Dean’s laid out. “What are you talking about?”

He blinks in surprise. “Bartholomew,” Dean reminds him, just a hair off-balance. He hadn’t expected Sam to respond at all. Most of his recent goading has been going unanswered, leaving him fumbling in the ensuing silence. Dean watches his brother for a moment, half-anticipating being shut out again, but Sam’s clearly invested in the conversation, even if he’s _pretending_ he isn’t by refusing to look at him. “What could he have possibly said to you to freak you out this bad?”

“I’m not—” Sam tightens his jaw and exhales, low and deliberate. He keeps his eyes fixed on the curve of sidewalk and asphalt in front of them. “I’m not ‘freaking out’,” he says stiffly. “I’m following orders.”

Dean doesn’t try all that hard to rein in his noise of derision. “Yeah,” he scoffs, “ _exactly_.”

 _That_ gets him a curious, sidelong glance. Go figure.

“You’ve never cared about Heaven’s orders once in our whole lives,” Dean says sharply, _blunt_ , because what’s the point of holding back now? On the eve of the literal goddamn Apocalypse. _Revelations_. The end of all things. Though he can’t help gentling his voice a little as the ancient memories color him grudgingly fond. “Used to give me a goddamn heart attack every time you’d argue yourself into a fight. Talk back to some angel you shouldn’t.” Dean shakes his head. Lets a bittersweet smile slip free. “I _literally_ became captain of the garrison just to keep your stupid ass out of trouble,” he says, only half joking. “You know how bad Ishim wanted that job?”

Sam doesn’t fight back the nostalgic smile of his own. “I remember,” he says in commiseration. “He used to glare at you whenever he thought you wouldn’t notice.”

Dean huffs out something bitter. “I had to promise him I’d look the other way every single time he popped down to Earth—knowing that if I ever got called in front of the higher-ups for his bullshit, it’d be  _my_ wings on the line.” The air between them sits warmer than it was a second ago. Almost _intimate_ under their shared past, despite the recent chill. His brother’s self-imposed distance. “So what changed, Sammy?” he asks, softer. “You drive me crazy for thousands of years, and then the _second_ I might agree with you, you’re suddenly on the other side of this?”

Sam’s looking at him now, his eyes wide and sad and beautiful. That otherworldly hazel all of his vessels must have shared. _Must have_ , given the way it tugs at Dean’s grace like heartache.

“It’s not real.”

Dean swallows compulsively at his brother’s confession. The quiet, broken sound of defeat in it. “What isn’t?”

Sam exhales again, only this time he breathes like all the life is leaving his body. “Our feelings,” he whispers huskily. “Wanting you.” Pain tightens his features and he ducks his head back down. “It isn’t _love_ , Dean,” Sam says. Definitive and immovable as stone.

There isn’t—

Dean can’t—

The following moment of infuriating silence feels about three years longer than it actually is. Sets his blood boiling to rage in the space between one blink and the next.

“That is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Dean finally spits out, enunciating every goddamn word, “and I have heard you say some _stupid_ shit before.”

His brother doesn’t budge, literally or metaphorically. “It’s not stupid. It’s true.”

“If you think this isn’t real, then you’ve never seen real in your life—”

“I _heard_ you, Dean!” Sam shouts suddenly. His eyes are wild, slick-shined, the only bit of honest emotion tearing through his perfect-gray-subordinate façade. “Bartholomew replayed your words for me, what you were saying to Naomi. About me!”

Dean’s brow draws itself into a furrowed point as he furiously racks his brain. He hadn’t said a goddam word to Naomi that wasn’t either begging her to let Sam go free or threatening her for daring to take their memories away. There’s nothing his brother could have heard him say that wouldn’t have put _more_ faith in their bond. Not shattered it like this. “What I was ‘saying’?” Dean repeats in sheer confusion. “What are you talking about?”

A sudden drop in air pressure and a thready flutter of wings announces their sibling’s arrival, cracking the moment wide open and sending their conversation scattering to the light winds. Irretrievable. Sam’s almost entirely composed himself by the time Zachariah steps out from the shadow of a streetlight.

“Hey there, boys,” their older brother greets them casually. Pleasant enough, like he’s in a good mood, but that familiar smarmy smile always sets Dean’s grace on edge. It’s worse, somehow, in his current vessel.

“You asked for us, Zachariah?” Sam says. Professional and to the point.

“That’s right,” he tosses right back, way too chummy. “The Righteous Man appears to be locked into some sort of panic room underneath Bobby Singer’s house. You’ll need to go let him out so that he can fulfill his purpose.”

Sam balks slightly at the order. Barely hesitant enough to be noticeable, a half-second at most, but Zachariah’s eyes narrow all the same. “There a problem, Sam?”

“Don’t—” He wets his lips and tries again. “Don’t you think Singer’s just trying to help him? Castiel Novak has been drinking demon blood. If he succeeds in detoxing him, then Michael will have a clean vessel. Bartholomew said that—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what Bartholomew said,” Zachariah says sharply, under the thin veneer of affability. “I answer to _Michael_ and these orders came directly from him. So I’m asking again: Is there a problem, Samuel?”

Dean shifts his stance, boot heels scraping faintly against the cement. “Yeah, Sammy,” he echoes, only with the exact opposite intent. “Is there a problem?” Because if his brother gives him just the slightest signal, Dean can have his angel blade out and through Zach’s head before he can utter a syllable. They can fight their way out of this—or _through_. All Sam has to do is nod, and Dean will fly into the very fire of this thing. Keep them safe as long as he can and damn the consequences.

But Sam just turns back to Zachariah, steel in his gaze. “No,” he says, quiet but determined. “No problem at all.” He’s gone in a flutter of wings. No goodbye kiss. Not even a glance in his direction.

Sam will be heading to St. Mary’s Convent afterwards; Dean knows the plan. Waiting with The Righteous Man so that Michael can claim his vessel the moment the last Seal is broken. _The end of all things_ —Dean thinks again.

Zachariah turns to him the second Sam’s gone. “You’re with me,” he instructs. “There’s a matter that needs attending, and Michael thinks you’re the right angel for the job.”

Dean lets out a barely-there sigh, but he does as he’s told. There’s no point in disobeying anyway. Not if he’s all on his own.

 

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

He touches down right behind Zachariah, trying to shove his impatience down as he wearily glances around their surroundings. Pristine white walls edged with gold trim. The gratuitous matching furniture centered under the crystal chandeliers directly above. Large, ornate portraits of Michael’s glory hanging from every wall that isn’t framing an exquisitely-carved sculpture of the same. “The green room?” Dean asks skeptically. “The super-important Armageddon shit you specifically needed my help with is in _Van Nuys?”_

“In a manner of speaking,” Zachariah says cryptically, and Dean rolls his eyes at the unnecessary dramatics. “You need anything before we continue?” he asks, oh-so-helpfully. “I can get you some of that greasy, disgusting food your vessel seems to be so fond of.”

Dean’s stomach makes an annoying rumbling sound at the offer—Smith’s body craving the saturated fats it had so long been denied, even as the odd, molecular taste of human food tends to put Dean off. “I’m good, man.”

“How about a big-screen TV? Pop in an old Chuck Norris flick? _You_ like those, right?”

“Alright,” Dean cuts him off. “Enough with the five-star crap. Whaddya want, Zach?”

His brother lets out a centering breath of his own, deliberately dropping his shoulders back down to easygoing. “I want you to stay right here.”

“And do what?” Dean asks.

“Absolutely nothing,” Zachariah says with a stepford grin. He spreads his palms wide, like he’s playing at innocuous.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Take a load off. Relax. Don’t worry your pretty little head about the last Seal.” He chuffs his fist against Dean’s bicep, like he’s pretending they can stand one another. “You’re warming the bench on this one, slugger.”

“And why is that?” he asks carefully.

“Dean,” Zachariah says with an indulgent sort of reluctance, “I wasn’t lying when I said Michael needed you, here, specifically. You’re the one problematic element in all this.” He flits his hands around to vaguely encompass current events. “The wrench in our gears. The sand in our Vaseline.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean sighs in frustration, pinching his fingers along the bridge of his nose. “I’m not trying to stop Michael from taking his vessel, okay? I’m playing along, just like Sam wants. So you can put me back in the game or whatever.”

Zachariah just pins him with a long, unimpressed stare. He doesn’t blink. “Castiel Novak isn’t Michael’s vessel,” he spells out excruciatingly slowly, like Dean’s the kid in the back corner with the dunce cap on his head. Like he can’t believe he hasn’t figured it out yet. “He’s _Lucifer’s_.”

Dean’s eyes widen reflexively. “That’s impossible,” he says, totally dumbstruck. “That’s not—” But there’s no point in bemoaning how slow he was on the uptake, so he shifts gears instead. “Then who the hell is Michael’s vessel?” he snaps, his temper leaping out sharper than he’d planned.

“As far as I know,” Zachariah says with a simple shrug, “they’ve landed on Adam Milligan. Some illegitimate half-brother Novak’s father sired in secret. Poor kid was torn apart by ghouls a ways back. It’s a tragic little story, but,” he claps his hands together brightly, “what’re you gonna do?”

He clenches his teeth together just so he won’t scream. They’ve been lied to. Every single one of them. _All_ of the boots in the ground. For _millennia_.

Dean silently fumes as he works it out. If Castiel Novak is Lucifer’s vessel, then— _Oh, God_. Sam doesn’t know. His little brother is a sitting duck and he’s right in the epicenter of all of it.

“Screw this,” he hisses, “I’m outta here.”

Zachariah doesn’t look shocked at his decision in the slightest. “Through what door?” he asks easily.

When Dean glances back, the wall is smooth and unbroken. A stupid parlor trick. “You seriously think that’s gonna stop me?” he tosses back, dry as dirt.

Zachariah just smiles that infuriating, unwavering smile. Not saying a word in his own defense.

Whatever. Dean doesn’t have time for his older brother’s idiotic mind games right now. He spreads his wings and launches up into flight—only, no, he doesn’t. He’s right back where he started. Stuck to this plane of existence. This exact room. Dean whirls on Zachariah’s smug face. “What did you do to me?”

“I told you that bringing you here was part of the plan,” he explains. “Michael made a few accommodations for your stay.”

Fine. If he can’t get to Sam in person, then he’ll just warn him telepathically. Dean flips Angel Radio back on and reaches out to his brother’s frequency. But there’s nothing. Nothing at all other than absolute silence. No angels on the wavelength. Dean’s been cut off completely.

“You can’t reach him, Dean.” Zachariah gestures to the walls keeping him locked down in his tastefully-appointed prison. “You’re outside your coverage zone.”

Dean slips a hand behind his back and reaches for his angel blade, shifting his stance to ready for a fight. He was half-heartedly trying to avoid this possibility, but if he has to kill one of their siblings to get to Sam, he will. No contest. But his fingers close on nothing. His weapon is gone too.

“Oh, please,” Zachariah sighs. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Dean swallows helplessly against the lump in his throat. He’s outmanned and outgunned. His powers leashed down and nothing left but his fighting spirit. So he swings out with the only thing he’s got left. “If the shoe fits,” he says like acid.

“ _Cute_. We’ll see how long that surly attitude lasts once Naomi gets you back in her chair. I’m thinking a full-system reboot this time.” Zachariah straightens his tie, always so fucking sure of himself. Michael’s bootlicking little lapdog. “’Cause here’s the thing, Dean. It’s always _Samuel_ that’s the real problem. _He’s_ the troublemaker. The ‘rebellious little brother’,” he says with the appropriate amount of mockery. Then he closes the distance between them, pointing his stupid sausage finger right at Dean’s face. “You, though, you’re a good soldier. Or at least, you are until Sam bats his slutty little eyelashes and then the two of you start rutting and grunting like a couple of bonobo chimps.” Zachariah lets out a self-amused chuckle, laughing along at an inside joke Dean has no part in. “I mean, you were there for the Egypt debacle,” he says conversationally. “Not that you’d remember it, of course.”

“You’re—” Dean has to dig his fingernails into his palm until the blood stings just to try and maintain his composure. “You’re planning on hurting Sam?” he asks darkly.

Zachariah rolls his eyes at him. “Of course we’re not gonna _hurt_ Sam,” he tosses back with every bit of condescension he can muster. “We need all the angels we can get right now. In case you haven’t noticed, the Apocalypse is kind of an ‘all hands on deck’ situation.” He raps his knuckles against the marble tabletop, playful. “Plus, Sammy’s more obedient right now than he’s been in centuries. Turns out, all we needed to do to get you chuckleheads in line was to drive a little wedge in between the two of you. We wipe your hard drive and keep you morons apart, you’re never gonna cause us any trouble again.”

Dread races down Dean’s spine at the threat. The most potentially horrific future he can imagine. A long, peaceful life in Paradise without Sam. He’d rather fight his way through Hell again. He’d rather stand against the Apocalypse alone, take on Lucifer single-handedly.

“Please,” Dean says roughly. It’s the one avenue he hasn’t tried yet. Shameless begging. “It’s not too late. There doesn’t have to _be_ an Apocalypse. We can stand against Michael, together. We don’t have to do this.”

Zachariah lets out another long, low chuckle. “Of course we don’t have to do this,” he replies flatly. “We _want_ to.”

And then he’s gone.

“ _No!”_ Dean roars. He sends a priceless vase smashing against the wall Zachariah was just standing in front of. Then another when the first crash wasn’t loud enough. He telekinetically destroys everything along the left wall of the room, then lets out a humorless laugh when it all comes back again the second he turns his head.

Dean breaks as much shit as he can, destroys valuable antiques over and over again, until he’s completely wiped. It’s more than futile, but it’s still better than just standing there and giving in. He glares at the closest painting once it’s come back for the third time.

He needs to get out of here before he loses his goddamn mind. He needs to get to Sam. Or, maybe he just needs a break from the never-ending images of Michael—his eldest brother’s stupid face judging him from every single masterpiece in the room. Dean swipes an angry hand through the air, changing all the portraits to the tackiest shit he can think of instead. Campbell’s soup cans and sad clowns and blacklight posters of Hendrix.

It doesn’t feel as gratifying as he thought it would. There’s still an endless number of gracefully-carved statues of Michael in all his angelic splendor.

Dean scoffs at the overly feminine sculptures. _Michael and his Michael Sword_ , the infinitely powerful right hand of God himself. He always looks like some waifish, delicate supermodel in artistic depictions. Dean reaches out and tips over the nearest figurine, just to be petty. Just to watch it smash against the pale wood floors. And seeing Michael’s countenance lying in broken pieces of sharp ceramic _does_ make him feel a little better.

_Wait._

Dean contemplates the jagged pieces scattered at his feet. They’re not remotely sharp enough to break through the magically reinforced walls of this place, but they’re definitely sharp enough to pierce his vessel’s delicate human skin. He drops to his knees and scoops the shards into his palm, hissing as one edge tears a thin slice through his flesh without him even trying. _Perfect_.

Dean works quickly.

He uses one piece at a time, keeping his bloody left palm away from the intricate design as he carves an angel-banishing sigil right into his own chest. It’s messy, painful work, but he can’t risk simply painting it onto one of the walls and then having it disappear. He’s only got one shot at this and he doesn’t know how far Zachariah or Michael’s control over this place extends. Other than a nephilim, this sigil is the one thing Dean knows about that’s more powerful than angel magic. More powerful than this room. More powerful than Michael’s warding keeping him here.

Dean puts the final touches on his macabre work of art, dripping deep crimson onto the green room’s spotless floors, and then he slams his bloody palm right into the center of his chest with a force like the mortar blast of a battlefield.

His last conscious thought is a prayer that he’ll end up somewhere useful.

 

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

_“Sainte Mère de Dieu!”_

Dean groans at the sudden shift in altitude, the blinding white light and the piercing vertigo as he hits the deck of what feels like a boat. _Hard_. A shrimping boat, judging by the smell. _Wonderful_. There’s two humans standing above him, three maybe, and the thick-muscled, balding one jabbers out something else to his underlings. Dean could reach into the man’s mind, find out everything he needs to know about where he is and who his unwitting saviors are, but his nausea roils along with the waves when he tries. It’s always like this after a banishment. Though he’s never been desperate enough to actually use one on himself before.

_“Qui diable est ce type?”_

_French_. Fuck. Sam would know how to conjugate each friggin’ verb. Not for the first time in the last few weeks, Dean laments what a poor excuse for an angel he is. The sailors’ words are slurring together a little quicker than he can follow. An accent there he can’t place.

“ _Terre_ ,” Dean croaks out. “Er, shit. _Sol?_ I need to get to land. _Besoin terre_.”

“ _Merde, je pense qu’il a besoin d’un hôpital_.”

Dean catches enough to get the gist, even with his vision fading in and out. “No,” he says weakly. “ _Non_. No _hôpital_. I just need to get to shore. _Rivage_.”

The bald guy reaches down to place one of his meat hook hands against Dean’s shoulder, and that’s when his consciousness drops out from underneath him.

He blacks out another few times before reaching shore, uneven flashes of fishermen running back and forth, the rough knots of a shrimping net under his back, waves drenching half the deck. By the time they get to the mainland—and the main road, judging by the flashing lights of the ambulance Dean blearily opens his eyes to—he’s feeling stable enough to sit up and get his bearings.

Delacroix, Louisiana, it looks like from down here, once he catches sight of the topography of the bay. At least he hadn’t gotten blasted out of the country. Dean half thought he’d wound up off the southern coast of France, even with the thick Cajun accents—as he belatedly realizes that’s what they were now. Though he’s gonna blame the blast trauma for that.

A different guy than before, a haggard, gray-haired man in a ball cap, reaches down to help him up, and Dean only sways a little once he gets to his feet. “Thanks,” he says weakly.

“Yeah, _alors pas_ ,” the guy tosses back, though he still looks spooked as all hell. “Don’t worry about it, _bonhomme_. We’ll get you to the truck, ok?”

“What? No.” Dean twists in the man’s hold, but he’s still not at full strength yet and they manhandle him into the ambulance way too easily.

Despite his struggling and complaints, they get him completely strapped down to a gurney before he’s better enough to fly again—but Dean slices through the restraints only a second after that, quick slash of his grace, and flaps out of there before the EMTs can even realize what happened.

 

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

Sam’s standing guard outside the church doors when Dean lands in Maryland.

He’s soaked with saltwater and bleeding through his shirt and dripping fish-stink onto the church’s stone flooring, and Sam gapes at him in a way that makes perfect sense, given the spectacle he must be making. “Open the doors,” Dean says.

“Dean, what are you doing here?”

“Open the _doors_ ,” he barks, “and give me your blade.” And he must look a goddamn sight, because Sam does exactly what he says with no questions at all, trailing at his heels as Dean races to reach Cas in time.

They don’t.

Lilith is already dead. Her corpse glassy-eyed and bleeding out onto the stone floor before the altar, the rivulets of blood twisting around themselves to converge on the Cage door. The final Seal has been broken.

Cas is huddled up at one corner of the altar, head in his hands as he rocks himself in horrific disbelief, and Meg, fucking demon bitch that she is, proudly turns to face them with a wicked smile.

“You’re too late,” she crows.

“I don’t care,” Dean spits back.

One telepathic nudge has Sam flashing out of sight and then reappearing behind Meg’s back. He grabs at her arms the second he catches on, pinning her back and wide so Dean can stab Sam’s sword straight through her heart.

She doesn’t even try to get away. She just flickers out with a victorious smirk still plastered to her pretty face. Like she knows she’s still won.

Sam lets her drop to the stone and Cas bleats out a wounded noise at the sound her body makes. He finally crawls from his spot, reaching out to sweep a dark curl from Meg’s forehead, loss in his eyes, even after her betrayal.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel says, grief soaking his words. “I didn’t know—”

“This isn’t your fault, Cas,” Sam says gently.

“Yes it is,” Dean interjects quickly before his brother can ruin the out they’ve been given. “But we’re gonna fix it.”

Sam snaps his neck around to stare at him in sheer bewilderment. _“I was the one who let Cas out of the panic room,”_ he shoots over telepathically, at least somewhat aware of the sensitivity of the topic—thank their Father. Dean doesn’t even want to begin to imagine their human’s possible reaction to such a reveal.  _“I was following orders,”_ Sam continues silently, _“but I can’t let him blame himself. Not for the little time he’s got left. If this is anyone’s fault, it’s **mine**.”_

 _“No.”_ Dean gives him a shallow shake of his head. Subtle enough that Cas won’t notice it past his own little nervous breakdown, but firm enough to stamp the message into his brother’s thick, if well-meaning, skull. _“You’re never telling him that. Ever. If we’re gonna do this, then we need Cas to trust us. Letting him in on the truth won’t help anything.”_

Sam furrows his brow in confusion. _“If we’re gonna do what?”_

_“Stop Lucifer.”_

His brother’s eyes practically bulge out of his head. _“Stop— Are you **crazy?** Dean, what are you talking about? What about the mission?”_

“Screw the mission,” he answers out loud. Sam’s own words from so long ago.

His brother gazes at him in disbelief. Tentative hope flickering through his expression, like he won’t quite let himself trust in it yet. “What happened while you were with Zachariah?” he asks.

Dean lets out a hateful scoff. “He locked me up in the green room.”

Sam frowns. “What? Why?”

He reaches out to get a hand on his little brother and, thank fucking God, Sam lets him this time. “Because Cas isn’t Michael’s vessel,” Dean says exhaustedly. “He’s _Lucifer’s_.” He glances over to check on how the news must be affecting Castiel himself, but their hunter doesn’t seem to be too much more distraught than he was when they came in. Meg must have already told him the gist. That, or this has all been too much for his little human mind to handle and he’s completely shut down. It could honestly be either one.

“What?” Sam breathes out in horror, and Dean turns his attention back to him.

“It’s true,” he says. “The assholes upstairs have been keeping it from all of us grunts. And Cas is the fucking sacrificial lamb they’re throwing into the lion’s den.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, they wouldn’t—” But Dean just pins him with a regretful look until he drops the knee-jerk argument. “Oh, God,” he says hoarsely.

“Not exactly,” Dean says with a sarcastic glance to the demon blood spiraling into the center of the church floor. “But we can stop him. Or—we can _try_ , at least.”

The blood finally converges on a single point and a sharp spire of light pierces straight out into the sky. Right from the mouth of Hell itself. A deafening jolt of escaping air whooshes out after it, and the aperture widens ever more.

 “Dean, I don’t understand!” Sam shouts over the mounting whine of the Cage unlocking. He winces at the blazing beam of light and clutches a fist around Dean’s lapel to keep them from being blasted apart. “What about everything you said about Lucifer and falling? About _rebelling?_ Our brothers and sisters?”

All fair points, he has to admit, but after stumbling across the true extent of the archangels’ plans, toeing the party line doesn’t really sound so righteous anymore. Dean turns his head to meet his little brother’s pleading eyes and thinks back on everything the other angels have taken from them. About Naomi, and how he and Sam could have been together—really, truly _together_ —for centuries before this if it weren’t for her meddling.

If it weren’t for _Michael’s_ meddling.

Dean thinks about everything they could possibly be giving up if he follows through with this…and then he thinks about every single thing that they stand to gain. And Dean would rather die tonight with his brother at his side than live on for another thousand years alone. A broad grin crawls its way across his face before he even gives it permission to do so. Easiest choice he’s ever made.

“Fuck ‘em,” he says bluntly.

The cacophony whirling around their heads has progressed to an ear-splitting screech by now and the light of Lucifer’s grace is quickly verging on blinding, but Sam’s awed look of disbelief outshines every bit of it.

Dean sends a futile prayer up to his Father, even if He’s never listened to a single one of them before, and readies his wings. There’s an airplane currently on a flight path directly over Ilchester, twenty-five thousand feet above them, and Dean takes less than a second to lock onto the coordinates, reaching out to get a mental hold on everyone still in the church—him, his brother, and their human charge. He’ll need to be faster than he’s ever been if he’s planning on outracing the fucking Morningstar himself, but he’s got a chance. The slimmest fucking chance there’s ever been in the long and storied history of slim chances…but a chance nonetheless.

In the scant, few seconds he has before Lucifer’s prison smashes itself open, Dean yanks Sam down to press a brutally fleeting kiss to his lips. One last time. Just in case. One last memory to bring to the Empty with him if he fails. Something not even _Naomi_ can take away. The only thing he’ll want to remember if this is truly the end of it all.

“Little brother,” Dean says, pulling back to meet Sam’s look of terrified determination with a mask of false bravado that he doesn’t really feel, “let’s be rebels.”

The Cage door finally buckles behind them with a deafening squeal of metal and a flood of searing grace—but for one infinite moment, the only thing Dean can make out is the younger angel’s love-struck grin.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Fleetwood Mac's "Revelation"


End file.
